


Look At Me

by Elfwreck



Series: Power Play [3]
Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Hogwarts Sixth Year, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-01-17
Updated: 2005-01-17
Packaged: 2017-10-11 18:12:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/115410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfwreck/pseuds/Elfwreck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry's new, dangerous game isn't going as well as he'd like.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Look At Me

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by ghoulchick. Originally posted at <http://community.livejournal.com/snape_potter/367047.html>.

He won't meet my eyes. Not that he ignores me, or doesn't notice me—he does—but it's like his eyes are always moving past me, never stopping.

In Potions class, he looks anywhere but my face. I see him looking at my hands, my cauldron, my tools, my finished potions… but never my eyes.

He looks Hermione in the face and insults us both. He looks Malfoy in the face and praises his skills. His only comments to me are indirect, just like his gaze.

He won't meet my eyes. I've tried everything—tripping on my robe (5 points), spilling a potion (10 points), bumping into him in the corridor (10 points, and a suggestion to meet with Madame Pomfrey), insulting Malfoy (10 points and a forced apology), asking about his family (15 points, and threats of detention during Quidditch if it happens again).

In the dining hall, I watch him. His eyes slide over the Gryffindor table, and skip past me without making contact. _How does he **do** that?_ My friends wonder what's wrong with me; they've never seen me be so careless with house points. I don't care about the bloody House Cup anymore; it's just a silly kids' game… people are _dying_ all around me and he's… I don't know what he is… In the middle of it? Someone who can teach me how to stop it? Someone who understands?—and he _won't meet my eyes_.

Ron & Hermione are studying. I leave them in the library, and go looking for him. It's after dinner; he's usually in his study. I'll find him there. It'll be just like Occlumency, only more direct.

Look at me, damn you.

* ~ * ~ *

I lead Potter on a merry chase. After the recent… incident… in Potions class, I won't play his little game in public. Since I won't give him an opening, he watches me. His eyes follow me across the room, in the corridors, at the dining hall. His friends are starting to worry about him, but he doesn't notice. _Attention whore_. All the adulation of his fans isn't enough for him… He can't tolerate my refusal to interact with him.

His Potions work is no better, and he spills things more often in vain attempts to control me. His hands shake when he reaches for his knife; he's almost cut himself three times today. He concentrates on reading the instructions… and then deliberately skips the first two steps. He's hoping I notice, and say something to him. He knows I can't let it slide; skipping the mugwort and sandalwood changes this potion from Sweet Dreams to Shared Nightmares. Much as I'd enjoy the reports of half of Gryffindor tower screaming themselves awake, I'm sure Albus would disapprove. I glance over the cauldron he shares with the Granger girl, and address my comments to her.

"Perhaps, Miss Granger, you should pay more attention to your partner's activities." She looks up at me, ready to be angry. Potter is defiant, challenging—but I'm not looking at him.

"It seems Mr. Potter would like you both to experience whatever twisted horrors crawl through his mind at night." She looks over at his work, sees that he's already started measuring dreamsnake venom, and sighs. She nudges him, and reaches for the herbs. He shrugs, pretending apathy. I know better.

"But then, perhaps he thought you needed some spice in your dreams, something to distract you from the charts and tables that must fill your sleeping hours as they fill your waking ones." She starts to turn red. Potter's lips twitch with words he does not say. He stares at me, daring me, begging me to meet his eyes. I turn away from their table.

I move to Malfoy's side. "Very interesting. Is that a pinch of powdered fire opal? Hmmm. That would add a very… sensual… component to the dreams. Five points to Slytherin for creativity." Malfoy preens. Potter glares at him; he really can't stand to see anyone else get my attention. He turns back to his work—and carefully bends so that he catches his foot on the hem of his robe, twists, and falls to the floor.

Another sprawl. This time, I am careful what I look at. Robes twisted around his waist, one leg out straight in what seems a very uncomfortable angle, one almost folded under him. I _do not_ check to see if he's dazed, this time. The Granger girl moves to help him stand. I walk to the front of the room as I speak.

"Five points from Gryffindor for carelessness." I don't even add insults. When I reach my desk and glance over the room before sitting, he's standing again, staring at me. He's almost shaking with rage. I suppose Granger thinks he's shaken from falling. She whispers to him, forces him to look at the potion they're brewing. His fists clench and unclench, and his movements are sudden jerks. He grabs a silver flask—Sweet Dreams can't be stored in glass—and starts to fill it.

He looks at Malfoy and slams the flask on the table, spilling some of it. He looks back to me, and his hands shake so badly he almost tips it over. Half the contents pour out onto the table, and start to smoke. This time I talk to him, but I only look at the potion.

"Your attempts to instill cheerful dreams in the table are unnecessary. I'm sure your hair alone is sufficient to remind it of the birds' nests it held when it was a tree, and the application of a costly potion is quite superfluous. Ten points from Gryffindor for misuse of magical supplies." He flinches when I mention his hair. Malfoy laughs once, almost a hiss. Potter turns red. Stops moving.

Granger takes the bottle from his hands; he splays his fingers out on the table. I know he's looking at my face; I watch his fingertips. His nails are short, uneven; perhaps he bites them. _His father's hands were always carefully tended. Perhaps they aren't so alike after all_. After a moment, he raises one hand to his face. I'm not sure if he's consciously trying to draw my eyes upward, or if he's just nervous. He pushes his glasses up—my eyes don't go above his wrist—and then both hands fall to his side. Fists again. White knuckles. I can almost see how the tips of his nails are digging into his palms.

The students start bringing their potions up to the front of the room, leaving silver flasks on my desk. Granger brings theirs; Potter hasn't moved. He stares at me. I look around the room, casually, slowly; I give no acknowledgment that his teeth are clenched and his breathing is heavy and erratic. _If he's not careful, he'll hyperventilate._ His friend tries talking to him as she leads him out of the room, but he shrugs away from her.

When all the students are gone, I leave the room. On my way to the library, I pass Potter and his two faithful lackeys. Or rather, the two lackeys walk around me; Potter is trailing behind them, and pretends not to be watching where he's going. He steps directly into me, almost knocking me over. He falls down. _This is getting tedious. He needs to learn a new technique_.

I'm sure he's expecting me to meet his eyes; I can tell from the position of his feet that he's fallen almost exactly as he did a few days ago. For someone who spends so many hours clutching a broomstick, it's amazing how he can't keep his legs together when he loses his balance. I close my eyes.

"This constant clumsiness is becoming tedious, Mr. Potter. Ten points from Gryffindor for inattention. Your obsession with throwing yourself at my feet is quite touching, but I must suggest that you see Madame Pomfrey if you develop any of the other signs of Fainting Sickness."

I step over his left leg; I _almost_ look down at him, and then remember our audience… half a dozen more students have gathered in the corridor. Malfoy is among them. As I step away, he calls out to Potter.

"Hey Potter—is that how you're gonna catch the snitch on Saturday? Fall down in front of it with your legs open and hope it likes you?" Malfoy's friends snicker. Potter's friends start toward them. Potter stands up, and he turns to Draco.

"I figured I'd just put my hand up & wait for it. After they finish throwing Voldemort's supporters & their kids out of Hogwarts, Slytherin won't have a team," he sneers. _He shouldn't sneer. He's not good at it._ The other children in the corridor, predictably, gasp at the Dark Lord's name. _I'll need to teach him the proper use of shock value_. Malfoy looks murderous, and his two goons are trying to figure out exactly how they've been insulted. The three of them step forward.

I step between the two groups, facing Malfoy but speaking to Potter. "That was… uncalled for, Potter. And extremely careless of you. Do not discuss these matters in the common areas of the school." I can hear him shuffle his feet behind me. I continue, "The headmaster has no plans to expel students for their parents' supposed political affiliations. Ten points from Gryffindor for your hubris, and you will apologize to Draco, or spend Saturday in detention instead of at the Quidditch game."

I step aside, so the two young men are facing each other. For once, Potter's eyes aren't tracking me. Quite the contrast they are, Draco's carefully-groomed silver elegance and Harry's disheveled sprawling confidence. _How does he manage to sprawl when he's standing still? Maybe it's not all deliberate; I believe he's grown two inches since last spring._ Potter turns red, and he swallows hard. Malfoy raises his eyebrows and waits. When Potter realizes I'm serious, he manages to spit out something like an apology.

"Sorry. Just because your dad's a Death Eater doesn't mean you are. I'm sure you'll be able to play Quidditch on Saturday." Malfoy scowls; it's not what he was hoping for. He looks to me for support—he wants me to force a real apology. _I can't force sincerity, but I'm sure Potter can do better than that. He'll never reach his potential if he can't._

I turn towards Potter, but I stare at a spot over the top of his head. "Potter," I say. "You will rephrase that."

"Why?" he blurts out. "It's all true. Why are you covering for him anyway—does your family have a history of supporting Voldemort?" The crowd gasps. He hears them, and realizes he's gone too far… fortunately, they think he's speaking in hypotheticals; they don't know my history. They just know that the pureblood houses tend to work together for their goals. But I can't let that stand. I close my eyes so I won't look at his face, and take a deep breath.

"Fifteen more points from Gryffindor," I hiss at him. "My family's history is none of your concern, and if you _ever_ mention them again, you will spend the next five Quidditch matches scrubbing cauldrons with a toothbrush." I turn away from him, open my eyes, and walk quickly to the library. I can't make him re-apologize; I'm breathing too hard. I've let him anger me.

It takes me almost half an hour to regain my calm, but by the time I join the other instructors in the dining hall, my self-control has returned.

I can feel his eyes on me while I eat, but I've faced much stricter scrutiny than his. I pretend not to notice. I let my eyes wander over the student's tables; I slide my gaze past the Gryffindor students very carefully. His devoted henchmen are whispering to him, sometimes loudly; I can hear them mention house points. _All the best lessons are costly_. The Granger girl even puts her hand to his forehead—I almost laugh aloud. She thinks he might be sick. Perhaps she can't tell the difference between Fainting Sickness and adolescence. He ignores her; he's watching me. As my eyes get close to his seat, I refocus to a spot behind him; I glance _through_ him rather than _at_ him.

He almost squeals in frustration. When I finish looking over the tables, he stands up. His plate's only half finished, but he stomps out of the dining hall. He doesn't notice how many eyes are on him. His friends watch him until he goes out the door, then look at each other and shrug. They finish their meals in silence. They don't look at me.

Two hours later, I'm grading papers in my study. I hear his footsteps in the hall. _I was expecting this. Not necessarily today, but soon_. He doesn't knock. Impertinent, disrespectful brat. He twists the door open and steps in, filling the doorway, glaring at me.

I savor his anger, his confusion, his brashness trying to cover his frustrations. I look up from my work, slowly, and meet his eyes. _The lesson begins_.


End file.
